𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

»»» 𝔦𝔦.𝔦𝔦

trigger warnings : talk of past torture and sexual assault

✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠

𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

If Truth didn't know any better, she would've assumed that she was in heaven.

At least, perhaps, this was what she thought heaven would feel like. 



She'd never thought of the notion much, knowing that she was responsible for too many heavy sins to ever reach that high after death, but, in this moment as she emerged into a state of semi-awareness, feeling as though she was floating on a cloud surrounded by warmth, offset by the cool air that had settled on her cheek, it might've been possible.

The illusion of paradise was only marred by the pain that encased her body, drawing her out from her bliss, even one slight movement causing her face to screw up in discomfort.



Her head burrowed deeper into her pillow as though she could escape the aches ruining her peace, leaning into the colder side that managed to soothe the pain in her head, the tension dispersing with a sigh as gentle fingers threaded through her hair, a distraction from her injuries.

Having found a short reprieve, she tried to latch onto it, to ignore the rest in favor of relishing in this feeling for as long as possible, coddled and cared for by hands who didn't aim to take and take and take like so many others had.

Then, in a single moment, it was gone.

"She's awake?"

Michael, she recognized. Her sleep-filled mind reached out to his, elated at hearing a familiar voice in this unfamiliar place.

"I think so," came the reply just above her in a low tone, causing a swirl of emotions in Truth, confusion taking the forefront with something akin to hope not far behind.

Natasha. She knew this without a doubt, and yet it didn't make sense.

Why was Natasha there?

"No nightmares this time, either," she added.

Nightmares?

Something lost in the depths of her muddled mind stirred at the word, memories embedded with echoes of fear and anxiety threatening to escape, tainting the supposedly innocent tranquility and safety, reminding her that something more sinister stalked her within the shadows.

A hand touched her forehead. Her body didn't react, momentarily paralyzed by the pain that encased her muscles, stuck between two worlds, but, mentally, she shied away from the touch, the feeling uncontrollable and intrusive compared to the softness surrounding her. She yearned to retreat back into her little cloud, where this pain and hurt was impossible, away from the memories that tethered on the edge, waiting to descend.